The opposite of life
is death
The polar opposite of eternal health
is terminal disease,
with unease perhaps lying/truthing
in-between timelessness
and untimely demise
So too,
my opposite of steady compassion
may be your unsettling dispassion
Elation v deflation
of all these oppositional answers above
as clear
as unclear appositional questings
below.
What is my opposite of suicide?
Self promotion?
Ego inflation?
Having all my consuming needs
fully answered?
Or
maybe some uneasy questing
timeless mind
and spacious body
in-between healthy Now
And death-defying
death-denying
death-defining
death-despairing
death-despoiling
AnthroLove Here
Remains part of EarthLife There
whenever tomorrow comes
Now?
As Me curiously questioning
feels like our lonelier half
of We not yet
finally answering?
What could appositionally rebalance
death's final answering Earth-climate
and life's open questioning Anthro-culture?
What is the opposite of lively ruminations
and deadly ideations?
What lies contentious truths contenting,
In-between EarthBody's discommunication
desecrating death
and AnthroMind's sacred communion life?
Singing with outside
transcendent
ego-theistic
wealthy resonant voice
while dancing inside
Eartheistic
healthy resilient choice
RePresents ancient sacred reconnections
of messianic verbal thoughts
invoking bodhisattva nonverbal feelings
Amusing muse vocations
re-presenting compassionate communications
contentiously contenting
indigenous EarthTribe wisdom
Singing while dancing
mindbody
humanely divine
crown/root chakra
expanding circles of resonant
resilience.
The mind in constant change for more,
to have or not and what to adore.
Matters of love promulgating those needs,
misconceptions attaching seeds.
Contenting with natures faithful fruit,
to honor that given health sphere suit.
With less, more souls meet at glance,
when facts fall dead and truth takes advance.
Virtue dissolves in motion of purity,
then anxiety paralyses the sense of activity.
More perfection in to forgive,
less judging limitation to outlive.
The more to love in all-exclusives,
realizing that destiny is all-inclusive.
More truth by if cannot be acquired,
but the less by compassion discovered.
Throne of everlasting moving sky,
laws of fixed position shining ray.
Lesser stars grow slowly dim,
virtues subtle eclipse and its glowing rim.
More things unseen by eyes limitation,
mysteries bond for innocent creation.
To sink into more mind despair,
less respect turns into dark without fair.
More faith is the wisdom source,
less seen spirits maintain that earth-ship course.
When is physical restraint equipment
also dirty laundry?
When your daughter vomits
all over her school bus transport harness,
When she could have more safely,
and less expensively, traveled
in a six-seat van
with her contenting seat belt on
Rather than shackled to her seat
and unshackled into her school
Where all unharnessed big girls and boys
hierarchically go
to not air their dirty laundry.
Winter's early evening breeze
feels and smells the same now,
as when sixteen,
except less promising
because more consoling,
contenting rather than regenerating contentious breath
of future hopes and dreams,
knowing we conspire somehow,
Earth and I,
because I feel richer to love this way,
than to breathe evening's winter still, alone.
I am less sure this was not my last daylight
in this operatic, yet ridiculously distracted,
lifetime landscape of sensexstory memory.
When I was sixteen,
my understory was more of a musical-comedy landscape
that would remain forever Peter Pan young, virginal,
well...hopefully not that.
Such confidence of seeing yet another
and another, apparently endless,
pink dawn,
turning yellow,
introducing blue hemisphere,
framed by green Earth's polycultural grasses
and monocultural asses,
which, at sixteen,
I found more amusing
than patience perdures into sixtyfour.
Winter's now later evening silence
remembering sixteen and sixtyfour
together
over vodka-laced pomegranate.
Where have you gone little boy
with the dark curly hair
and the skinny body.
I used to see you run and play
and chase lightning bugs and baseballs.
Where have you gone little boy
with the sparkle in your eyes
and the giggle when you chased the butterflies.
Where is the laughter that came with practical jokes
and flowers picked by the side of the road to
surprise your mother as she met you at the door.
That little boy is still close by
only now he sits in his overstuffed chair
and dozes in the warm spring air
No longer chasing butterflies and baseballs
but contenting himself to watch foolish things on
that idiot box.
Why don't you come out and play little boy
Life is not much fun, when there is no one to play with.
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